untouched
by Innocence Has a Gun
Summary: Luca has a problem. Spada decides to stop pretending to be asleep and help him with it.


Luca wakes up in the middle of the night in a hot sweat and with a problem on his hands. He doesn't even remember the dream he'd been having (_rough hands, grins pressed into flushed skin, bites and blindfolds-_) but there's the leftover problem from it, and he shoots a furtive glance across the room to the bed where Spada's resting peacefully before he shifts his underwear to his knees and loosens his shirt, feeling as if every button slipping out of its chokehold makes a loud sound, louder than his heart pounding in his ears. Still, the figure across the room doesn't stir and Luca bites his lip, letting out a long, drawn breath and trying to ready himself for the inevitable.

The first moan escapes his lips before he can stall it and he freezes, eyes trained directly on the sleeping figure in the other bed. Spada's a light sleeper – Luca knows, he's always had to be – an to be caught like this would be- he flushes at the thought, almost tempted to forget his problem or go somewhere else (but it'd be triply as embarrassing to meet someone on his way to the bathroom – doubly so if it were Iria or Ange or-) and sucks it up, drawing a sharp breath when there's no sign of being awake from the other bed and closing his eyes. A second, hesitant touch to try and relieve himself brings forth something quieter by necessity, a breathy moan and he arches as he continues. The dream edges back like a memory forgotten by time, pulling at the edges of his mind and twisting tenderly in his fingers, fueling the languid, feeling strokes Luca's accustomed himself to. With every piece that comes flowing back, a word (a name) tumbles out of his mouth, soft and breathy and barely able to be heard above the drumming of his pulse. In the back of his mind, he knows he shouldn't take his time, but there's something exciting about the idea of being caught like this.

The idea, that is, the _idea_ is exciting and the reality much less so and he's nearly to his peak when he feels the bed shift under the weight of someone else and freezes, a moan caught in his throat. He's afraid of who he'll see (he knows who he'll see) but slides open an eye anyways, finds Spada licking his lips and reaching out to steady him. No, not steady him; calloused fingers close over him and Luca can't help but jerk his hands away from his cock and plant them in the bed instead, curling his fingers into the bedsheets and shame washing over him like a tidal wave. Spada's mouth quirks into a grin and he leans closer, spreads Luca's legs a little more, teases him gently and whispers that he shouldn't be so _loud_ if he doesn't want company to wake up and Luca just burns brighter, bites his lip even when Spada kisses his cheek and teases him about calling _his_ name, tease him about having dreams about _him_. It's- it's weird, Luca thinks, but it's good, wrapped up in a whirlwind of other thoughts. It's with reluctance that he pushes Spada's hands away and pushes Spada away, turns away and curls in on himself, shaking his head. He unfolds so easily, though, when Spada coaxes him back out and holds him from behind, rests his head on his shoulder and presses their cheeks together as he works Luca back up, against him and the little breathy sounds he couldn't hear from across the room sound loud and clear whispered and breathed into his ear, and it's somehow satisfying to hear his name crack into a whine when Luca comes, arched up and kind of pretty in the dim light through the window, sweat-streaked and eyes half-lidded, patches of red flushing across his body and slipping under his unbuttoned shirt.

He lays against Spada for a long while, reining in his breath and his feelings, and only shifts when Spada decides to get up; he opens his mouth to say something but Spada puts his finger against his lips and signals 'one moment'. He leaves Luca alone in the quiet, dark, slowly-returning-to-cold room and in the time it takes him to come back, Luca's buttoned his shirt back up and stripped the bed of its sheets and blankets, tossing them onto the floor and reclining awkwardly after looking for tissues. That's what Spada comes back to, though, and he lets Luca clean up himself (he would've helped, but Luca grabs the box with a _notthat'sokayicandoitit'snobigdealspada_ and immediately turns away) and slinks over to his own comfy, still sheeted bed. Luca watches him as he slows in his clean up, biting the inside of his bottom lip before finishing as quickly as he can and throwing the used tissues into the trash can, tugging his boxers back up and threading and unthreading his fingers until he sits onto Spada's bed and asks him, eyes cast at the floor, if he can stay in his bed tonight. Spada blinks then shrugs, pulls him in and tucks the blankets around him and lets him cuddle in his arms, and he's almost dozing off when Luca tugs at his collar and presses his lips together, nervous. Spada stares at him like a cat slightly irritated by a mouse interrupting his sleep (which, well, he supposes he is) and Luca has to work up the balls to half-whisper, half-demand his question.

"How... how long have you been up, Spada?"

Spada's irritation fades and the grin slinks up, familiar and curved, and he closes his eyes and lets his fingers ghost over Luca's hip.

"The whole time, man."

Luca's half-whine, half-whimper serves as a pleasant response, along with burying his face into Spada's shoulder and refusing to budge.


End file.
